


remorse; correction

by deadlybride



Series: zmediaoutlet [7]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Drunk Sex, Episode: s10e03 Soul Survivor, First Time, M/M, Surprisingly Un-Angsty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-05
Updated: 2016-12-05
Packaged: 2018-09-06 15:18:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8758072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadlybride/pseuds/deadlybride
Summary: After Cas leaves them alone in the bunker, Dean tries to apologize to Sam.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Armellin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Armellin/gifts).



> Originally posted on my tumblr on November 13, 2016.

Castiel brings him a bag of take-out from Jiffy Burger. “Sam asked me to give this to you,” he says, in that bone-dry way of his, and there’s no judgement, there’s nothing but that careful spare affection that Cas has had in his voice all night, but Dean’s gut still shrivels into something hard and cold.

He takes the bag, anyway. “You gonna stick around, man?”

Cas shakes his head. “Hannah is waiting. There are still angels out there who need help. You and Sam will be fine.”

Dean wants to stop him, wants to sit him down and ask questions—ask about everything that’s happened since he—but he forces a grin, instead, makes some crack about Cas getting back to his girl which Cas clearly takes at face value, and then he’s alone, in his dim room, the dinner Sam brought him slowly spreading grease onto his desk.

He eats the fries. They’re good even cold, but he doesn’t really taste them beyond the salt. He unwraps the burger and it’s sitting there greasy and gorgeous, extra onions that he didn’t even have to ask for, and the thought rises unbidden that he—he almost killed Sammy, tonight. He shoves the burger away, buries his face in his hands. God. He almost—and the thing is that Sam’s good, but Dean is _better_ , and if Cas hadn’t shown up exactly when he did—

The hallways are lit up in bright-white, blinding. He walks slowly, so he won’t run. He passes the hole in the wall he made with the hammer and closes his eyes, swallows, so he won’t puke up half-digested fries, so there won’t be yet another of his messes to clean up.

“Yeah,” Sam says, muffled, when Dean taps on his door, and then when Dean swings the door open Sam blinks at him in shock. “Oh,” Sam says, pushing himself upright on his bed. The TV’s on, and Sam was half-laying down, his boots off and his hair a mess. “Oh, I thought you were Cas.”

“Nah, left my harp in Duluth,” Dean says, shrugging, and Sam actually smiles, a little. “Uh, you—you mind if I—”

Sam’s nodding before he can finish the sentence and that’s not really an answer, it could go either way, but Dean’s not gonna look a gift horse in the mouth and he comes into the room all the way, closes the door behind himself. Sam’s got one lamp on, the one on the desk, and the TV’s playing—what, some kind of nature documentary, the sound turned all the way down. “Learning about tigers, huh,” Dean says, but when he looks back at Sam he sees that, no—Sam’s got a bottle of the good scotch tucked in next to his side, and it’s almost half gone.

Sam leans his head back against the wall, gives Dean a little half-smile. “Prey stalking behavior,” he says, and it’s not meant to be cutting but Dean flinches anyway.

“Sammy,” he says, and is mortified to hear his voice has gone all thick. He clears his throat. Sam frowns at him, and that’s—shit, that’s Sam’s _concerned_ face, and Dean wobbles a little. He sits on the edge of the mattress, ‘cause the desk chair is too far away, and Sam blinks at him, slow. This close Dean can see that he’s a little pink in the face, his eyes a little glassy–tipsy already, and it’s only been like half an hour. “Sammy,” Dean says, again, but he doesn’t know how to say it. How to apologize for something this big. He takes another breath, but then—

“No,” Sam says. He shakes his head, slowly, still leaned back against the wall.

Dean bites the inside of his cheek. Sam shifts a little, winces, and—he’s hurt, how could Dean forget. He’s still got his sling on, which means that something’s wrong with his arm, or his shoulder, and Dean doesn’t know how it happened. He always knows, when Sam gets hurt—usually kills whatever did it—but now he doesn’t, doesn’t even know if he has the right to ask, and he turns away, closes his eyes and runs a hand over his too-long hair and he opens his mouth to say _sorry_ as though that would be any kind of reparation, any kind of amends for what he’s done, but then long warm fingers curl over his wrist and he freezes. Sam’s only got the left hand to work with, and he’s tired and boozy and not even trying hard, but when he tugs Dean obligingly turns a little, faces him even though he’d rather gut himself, right this second. When he opens his eyes he sees that Sam’s frowning, but not hard —concentration, not anger. Dean waits, wondering what Sam’s gonna say—knows he deserves it, whatever it is—but Sam just—he reaches up and touches Dean’s face, two fingertips sliding a little clumsily along his stubble. Dean doesn’t breathe. Sam’s not meeting his eyes. The fingers slide up to his cheekbone, land fumblingly at the corner of his eye. Dean closes them, and a light touch ghosts over his eyelid, runs down his nose to his mouth and there Dean catches Sam’s hand, stops him, because this is—and he opens his eyes back up to find Sam looking right back, like—he’s never seen Sam look like that before.

Sam says, “You almost killed me,” quiet, and Dean cracks. The heat surges up behind his eyes for the first time in months and it stings. He tries again to say _sorry_ but his throat’s closed up tight. Sam pulls Dean’s hand close and Dean lets him, he’d let Sam kill him right now if Sam wanted, but all Sam does is—he puts his mouth against Dean’s knuckles, breathes against him with the air coming damp and warm against Dean’s skin. Dean stares. Sam’s eyes are half-lidded, whatever he’s thinking hidden behind his eyelashes, but while Dean watches he opens his mouth a little more, and that’s—there’s no way Dean can call that anything but a kiss. Sam’s lips are soft-warm and moving against Dean’s fingers. Heat drops like lead into the pit of Dean’s stomach and he sucks in a breath, knows he should say something, but then—Sam pulls Dean’s middle finger into his mouth, hot slick of tongue and his teeth scraping over the skin, and Dean—something throbs, deep, and he doesn’t stop it.

“Sammy,” he says, strangled, and Sam sucks on the finger in his mouth, pulls back and sucks in Dean’s forefinger as well, goes down to the knuckles, soft and wet and easy. Dean sits there, lets him, his other hand a fist against his thigh, and Sam pulls back slow, teeth dragging along the underside of Dean’s fingers, and he’s holding Dean’s wrist so lightly, his thumb warm and pressing gently into Dean’s palm, and he kisses the tips of Dean’s fingers, where they’re gleaming with his own spit, and he looks up at Dean with his eyes gone dark, and Dean doesn’t—he doesn’t know where this is coming from, but his dick’s chubbed up in his jeans and Sam’s looking at him—looking at him like _that,_ like Dean’s seen him look at just a few people in his life. He bites his lip and pushes his fingers back against Sam’s wet lower lip, just the barest amount of pressure, and Sam—he sucks them right back in, his eyes fluttering closed, he makes this deep cracked sound in his chest and Dean scrambles around, he climbs onto the bed with his boots still on and his knees on either side of Sam’s thighs, his free hand out to balance against the wall so he doesn’t jostle Sam’s bad arm, and his fingertips glance against the back of Sam’s throat but Sam just opens his mouth and breathes against Dean’s skin, and Dean drags his hand away and leans down and kisses him, where he’s wet and open, their hands clenched together between their chests, his fingers slipping wet against Sam’s.

Sam kisses back, hard, no hesitation. His mouth tastes like the scotch he’s been drinking and Dean feels like the world has slipped sideways—there’s stubble on the chin brushing his, Sam’s familiar little-brother smell all around him, and it should be revolting but it’s just—it’s not. It’s _not_ , and Sam fumbles his one hand out of Dean’s grip, snakes it around to push against the small of Dean’s back to hitch him closer, and— _fuck_ , they’re pressed together at the crotch now and that bulge, that big warmth meeting Dean’s dick and sending a shudder down his spine, that isn’t Sam’s gun, is it. “Happy to see me?” Dean says, almost airless, his lips brushing against Sam’s, and Sam gives a little breathy laugh, arches his hips up into Dean’s. Dean groans, because— _goddamn_ , and Sam wriggles underneath him, shoves at him a little, and _fuck_ , that _pressure._ Sam’s mouth is moving, along his jaw to a spot just under his ear that makes him shiver all the way down to his gut, and then Sam’s tugging at his belt in the bare sliver of space between them, and Dean reaches down to help, and between their two hands’ fumbling there’s the zippers going down, and then boxers shoved out of the way, and then— _oh_ , bare skin, Sam’s dick brushing hot and stiff against his own, and Dean shoves a hand up Sam’s shirt, scrapes his fingers up the hair on his belly and up, to his flat firm chest, and Sam bites against the spot under Dean’s ear and Dean’s hips jerk, shove into Sam’s, but he—he has to look, wants to look, and he pulls Sam away with a hand buried into the back of his hair, ignores Sam’s deep-down groan and—

It’s big, bigger than Dean’s, and that should be annoying but it’s—it’s not, god, it’s not. Dean shifts his hips, drags them together in a slow thrust. Their flies scrape against the thin sensitive skin on his hips but the tiny irritation lights a spark in his belly. He pushes again, pushes their shafts together up against Sam’s stomach, and he actually sees it when a clear pulse of wet beads up on the head of Sam’s dick and he groans, doesn’t mean to but—”Fuck, Sammy,” he says, almost lightheaded, and then Sam pulls Dean’s hand out of his hair, licks Dean’s palm in a broad wet swipe and pushes it down, wraps it around the big urgent shape of Sam’s dick and Dean—he knows how to do this, this is easy, and then he’s being kissed, again, Sam licking deep into his mouth and stealing his breath while they both work to jerk Sam off, and god, the little sounds Sam’s making, the way his hips are flexing up into it, carrying Dean’s weight with each little abortive thrust—and he’s pushing against Sam, too, thrusting back, using the slick Sam’s making to shove into Sam’s skin, and then Sam lets go and grabs Dean’s dick, broad and strong and so much bigger than Dean’s used to, and he jerks Sammy harder, matches the strokes Sam’s using on him on instinct, wraps an arm around Sam’s shoulders and breathes open and wet into Sam’s mouth and Sam bites his lower lip, hard, shoves into Dean’s hand and runs a slippery thumb rough through the slit of Dean’s dick and Dean comes, like a shot, balls unloading sloppy all over Sam’s belly. He sags, hand going lax, but then a bigger hand is covering his and Sam’s jerking himself using Dean’s hand, their fingers tight together, fast and hard and wet, wetter than before, because Sam’s hand is covered in—and then there’s a deep punched-gut grunt and wet heat over Dean’s hand, shooting against his t-shirt, Sam’s hand squeezing around Dean’s so tight that it hurts.

They breathe, foreheads pressed together. Dean keeps his eyes closed. Sam’s hand slowly unclenches, and wet fingers slide around the too-sensitive head of Dean’s spent dick, dip down to brush over his balls where they’re still caught under the waistband of his boxer-briefs. He shivers, but doesn’t stop it, and the fingers smooth up his belly, under his t-shirt, smear along until they’re settled on the dip of his waist, just holding on.

There are things he should say. Questions he should ask. _How long_ , and _why_ , and _how could you, even now, even after everything_. He doesn’t want to, though. Not yet. For now, he keeps his eyes closed, and listens to Sam’s breathing settle. He keeps his arm slung around Sammy’s shoulders, like a hug.

 

**Author's Note:**

> [posted here on my tumblr if you'd like to reblog](http://zmediaoutlet.tumblr.com/post/153129058844/remorse-correction)


End file.
